Genesis
by Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain
Summary: How did Martin get to where he ended up?


**Disclaimer**: If anyone thinks I own _Without A Trace_ or any of the characters involved, I must regretfully say that I do not. I will, however, say that those who do are doing an excellent job with them. I will say then, that these works are an homage to the wonderful world they have created.

**Author's Note**: The dialogue in Section 3 comes directly from the pilot episode. Everything else comes directly from my imagination.

Thanks muchly to gaianarchy and kate98 for the beta. They can even fix the things I write in a whacked out migraine state (which is where the first section came from).

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Genesis**

(1)

Every sound smashes into his nerves, sending electric jolts through the system, making him flinch. Every movement drills straight down to his stomach, sending it on a rollercoaster of rapid climbs and crashes. Each smell causes the world to lurch and spin until thought is impossible; even the colour of light is too much information to his senses as his filters shut down and his brain tries to consciously process everything.

But the world won't stop. Nobody seems to care that Superman is sick, that the reliable one is no longer reliable.

He wants to cry – he can't help it. He needs to stop, but no one will let him. They don't seem to understand that even machines break down. Worse yet, they won't let him alone. They just keep bothering him and bothering him, asking for one thing after another, not getting that single syllable answers are not his style, that he rarely speaks in monotone. They don't seem to understand plain English, that "I'm sick," means that he really is sick.

He looks around at the faces and realises that he doesn't like any of these people anymore. He realises that they're part of the problem – it's more than the job, it's the people in it, people who no longer seem to care, who are too caught up in the workplace politics to give a damn about anything else. Apathy is a disease, or maybe an airborne toxin. It poisons the mind and the soul, leaving nothing but bitterness behind.

He's got to get out of here, on to something new. He's too young to die of this sickness, stress and frustration. He knows what people will think, but he just can't do this anymore. He can't sleep, he can't eat and a mere vacation won't help.

He grabs a form and begins filling it out. _Request for Transfer_. No one will deny it: here they'll be glad to get rid of him, and there they won't dare say no. Where 'there' is going to be… he leaves that blank. Maybe someone will get a laugh or pass it on to the old man who might recognize the modus operandi. _Anywhere but here_. Because this place is too much like home. All his life he hasn't cared where he was going, so long as it wasn't where he was at the time.

He seals the request and drops it in the inter-office mail, just in time for the next wave to hit. He drops to his knees: even flat ginger ale and soda crackers aren't bland enough to stay down, not this time. He hears a groan and someone swearing, which isn't really fair. They're not the ones in pain. They're not the ones whose stomachs are trying to turn inside out and crawl between their ribs. They're not the ones who can feel the sweat starting to pour down their faces, their backs, their bodies. They're not the ones trying to hold on to a consciousness determined to get away. One of them is, however, the same voice that insisted he get his ass in here this morning because there was no one to replace him. Maybe this will teach him to believe the words 'I'm sick,' even if it is the middle of ski-season and the caller is known for his love of the mountains. Not that it matters: right now, lying in a mix of vomit, sweat and tears, Martin really doesn't care.

(2)

He's picking up his things, stuffing a few small mementos in a box when he overhears.

"Have fun, Jack. He's a head-case."

Jack. That would probably be his _new_ SAC. He knows who the 'head-case' is, that's what you call the guy who collapses at work and has to be rushed to the hospital. It doesn't _matter_ what the doctors say, about the main cause being viral/bacterial (food-poisoning _and_ the flu, how unlucky can you get at one time?) and stress just a contributing factor… all that is just excuses. Most head-cases just find themselves waltzed out the door, but then most head-cases don't carry half the genes of one of the sons-of-bitches-in-charge, either.

_Fuck you._ Yup, viral/bacterial _is_ just an excuse because right now he finds himself swallowing the urge to take out his gun and blow some bastard's brains out. _'Stress is the condition caused by not choking the living shit out of some asshole who desperately deserves it.'_ It's been a week, surely he should be more in control than this.

At least it doesn't show, even as he places the last little thing in his box and turns to leave without saying goodbye. Goodbye implies some sort of regret about leaving, and that's something he isn't taking with him. He stifles another urge: to drop a lit match into one of the wastebaskets as he leaves and let the whole damn place go up. Then Seattle is gone, and New York lies ahead. _Maybe, just maybe_… he commits the cardinal sin of the chronic runaway and allows himself a little bit of hope.

(3)

Another ambulance, another pounding head.

"… just so stupid."

He's not sure if he's supposed to have overheard this one, but maybe they've got a point. He can't even get through a day without screwing up… maybe the old man was right, maybe he's not cut out for this. It's the only thing he's ever really _wanted_ to do in life, but maybe he can't. What does it matter having brains that can pull off effortless honour roll grades if all they do is provide support for his skull when someone tries to bash it in?

"Jack… is Maggie going to be alright?" Either way, he's printing out and signing the letter he's had on file since day one. _I respectfully resign…_ But if she isn't… it'll be his fault and he's got a cabinet full of pills at home to help him deal with that. He keeps the thoughts off his face, though. Jack seems like a guy who cares and Martin doesn't need a twenty-four hour guard getting in the way of what he needs to do. There is no room for failure, it's never been allowed. Success is the only option; failure is for lesser beings. _That_ is the first lesson he ever learned in life. Commandment Number One, overriding all others: _Thou shalt not screw up_.

"Yeah, no thanks to you. You almost got her killed. You never should have gone in there alone." Jack confirms it and Martin fights to keep control, to not show the pain that has nothing to do with a baseball bat and everything to do with unforgivable sin. His remarkable, useless mind throws together a plan and he checks it over for flaws. Pills because they'll take away his gun and anyway drugs will leave less of a mess for someone to clean up. He won't use his new apartment – the landlord's done nothing to him to deserve something like that and it can be a son-of-a-bitch trying to rent out a place when the previous tenant offed himself there. And another letter, confessing his crime and giving absolution to these people he hardly knows and who had nothing to do with it, other than allowing him to see the full work, completely unadulterated, the first true reflection that the mirror has ever thrown. He's not going to allow himself even faint hope this time, look what happened, look what it buys. _Screw-ups and hurt. Trouble for all concerned_.

Even the option of starting over in something entirely new… even the construction trade, the only other job he ever enjoyed doing during that one, good summer… no, he'd only screw up there too. _I don't expect you to understand, but it really is best for everybody._

At least these people haven't had a chance to get to know him, to figure out what this blank expression really means. Let them think of him as the brat, the screw-up, riding on Daddy's reputation, the one who doesn't really care. He'll never shake that image, so why bother to try?

Who's he been kidding, anyway? Running away has only been a sop, a way to avoid the real thing. This time he'll do it right, do it for good.

"Take him to the hospital. Make sure he gets his head checked." For a second, Martin wonders if Jack does see something, as the man turns away, placing Danny on temporary guard.

"Yes, sir." Martin sees the contempt in Danny's eyes, but it's nothing compared to what he feels himself. As the doors close and the ambulance pulls away, Martin turns blank eyes to the wall. Nope, Danny definitely isn't on the Martin Fitzgerald team, but in these circumstances that makes him the best ally Martin could hope for. Soon as he dares, Danny will cut Martin loose and Martin can do what's right.

_Head-case strikes again._ He wants to cry, but doesn't dare. Not here, not now. Commandment Number Two: _Thou shalt not admit to pain_. Instead, he defies the rules for care of concussion, closing his eyes and shutting out the world, finding that place inside where he doesn't have to _be_ anymore.

(4)

_Head-case_. They've all heard the rumours, about melt-down and cover-up, and watching this kid, they're easy to believe. Not that he's much younger than Danny himself, but that air of wide-eyed innocence makes him seem like a two-year-old trying to make up for stealing a cookie.

Danny bites back a comment, at the blankness on the kid's face. _You just about got more than her killed, Genius._ They say this guy's supposed to be smart, one of those honour-roll Ivy-leaguers the Bureau loves to brag about having, but he's got the survival instinct of… Danny can't think of a creature on God's given earth that would make the moronic decision to chase after a kidnapper and possible killer alone. _That's_ the other thing, why Danny can't help but think of this rookie in childish terms. _Sheltered, naïve…_ stupid's probably a good term for it, all right. He hopes Jack isn't expecting Danny to take this kid under his wing and play big-brother. If _anything's_ likely to drive him back to drinking, it'll be babysitting some spoiled little rich boy who needs a few _more_ hits to the head to give him a sense of reality.

Kid closes his eyes and loses consciousness again, all without saying a word. No sorrys… no regrets… it's like he doesn't even care, like he thinks he's immune because Daddy's got one of the top jobs so no one's going to do a damn thing. What Danny doesn't get is why _Jack_ cares. Jack's not a political animal, but he's shaken up bad. Which is weird, because he usually doesn't have much tolerance for brats, saving his sympathy for the truly damaged, the ones who really need it.

Then Danny sees it. A single tear, escaping only now that the kid's passed out, or as damn near as the paramedics will let him. You have to build up a lot of pain to cry when you're asleep – this Danny knows from hard experience. Unconsciousness is a way to _escape_ the pain, that's why people drink.

_Great_. He doesn't _want_ to feel sympathy for this kid. He doesn't _want_ to waste time becoming friends with someone who will be gone in a month, two months, and won't look back. He knows now what Jack saw, why he felt the need to put someone on guard. Jack doesn't want one stupid thing to lead to another, and this guy's right on the edge of it. Not a kid anymore, either. No, he knows reality, knows what hurt is, even if he does need to play the hero, to grab the spotlight and show off just how smart he is.

_Shit_. Danny knows that story, too. Sometimes the biggest attention seekers are the ones who never get it. _Negative attention is still attention_. So you're in jail, and the cops are watching you. At least somebody is.

He puts it all together: why Jack sent Danny on this ride and not someone more sympathetic, more willing to fuss. The last thing this Martin guy needs is someone indulging him or ignoring him. He _does_ need a big brother, someone to give him hell and tell him what's what. Someone who won't be sucked in by all the lies and games, because he's told them all himself. Someone who won't buy 'I'm okay,' no matter how confidently the words are delivered, someone who won't listen to the tears, the threats and the temper tantrums. In short, someone to kick his ass.

"You got it, Brother." From here on in, it's nothing but hard times and hard lines. No mercy, no sympathy, no tolerance. No bullshit either, nothing but the cold, hard truth. Danny leans close, whispers in Martin's ear. "You screwed up. Don't think that makes you special." Just for a moment, he swears he sees something else flicker on those features. Relief? Maybe.

_Definitely a head-case_. But around here, everybody is, one way or another. Jack's a workaholic, Viv gets obsessive and has that whole Yankees thing, and Sam's got more insecurities than a Wall Street broker in Black October. _And I'd kill you right now, for a shot at a drink_.

Nope, whatever respect this guy wants, he's going to have to fight to get. In the meantime he'll have someone to fight with, because sometimes that's the first step. Danny settles down, getting ready to keep watch. One day, if this guy stays here long enough, he might be able to back off, give Martin some credit and trust. Maybe, they might even get to like each other, be friends. In the meantime… _Welcome to the team, brother… like it or not._


End file.
